Last week I received a couple of robo-calls on different days from Robert’s nursing home notifying me that there were two covid cases found in employees in the building. This affects visitation, but in Robert’s case, as he is on “comfort care,” it does not. One friend from his former employment, a fellow teacher, spent time with him on Sunday. This past Wednesday, A & J, from Chicago, came to visit as part of their travels to see family. And so, I made a plan. We would pick them up from the Long Island Rail Road (they were staying in Manhattan), bring them to lunch and eat in a lovely outdoor venue, wish A a wonderful birthday, and go to visit Robert.

As per the reception desk, they were not allowed upstairs together due to regulations, in reaction to the two cases.

I went up, alone, to Robert’s room, where I found him sleeping. His roommate was watching television. There was the occasional loud wave of noise from the nurse’s station, right outside his room. Bursts of laughter; each time that I am there, that sound echoes throughout the T-shaped hallway and into the rooms of resting old people.

I stroked Robert’s arm and said his name. His eyes opened. I told him I was there. The webs of sleep in his eyes dissipated.

“It’s me, I brought A & J to see you, they are in from Chicago. Is it Ok if I bring them up one at a time?”

“Yes,” he said.

I escorted A up. He reached for Robert’s hand and he held it. Robert gripped it. I believe that Robert is aware of what is going on. I believe that the recent report indicating that there is no genetic component to his illness is an indicator that the problem is still that basic illness: Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus. It has progressed and caused a global dementia. I believe that when Robert contracted Covid in this very nursing home and was moved several times for triage, it further complicated his situation and affected his language center. I believe.

After about fifteen minutes I brought J upstairs where she found her husband playing music for Robert from his iPhone. A is Robert’s childhood friend. He is full of memories of schooldays from elementary through High School. A & J were not supposed to be in there together, but since I sneaked a second visitor up to Robert and the guffawing in the hallway was louder than ever and the head nurse was, as usual, glued to his phone, I figured what the hell! Let them both stay for a few minutes: I told them to come down separately.

Robert held and gripped J’s hand as well.

When I returned, alone after the visits, I told R that I had hoped he had a nice time, that I would see soon. I love you, I said, and there was the usual non-affected stare with no response. I said it again. No response. I said, “Robert, say I love you.” he said I love you, like a parrot, clearly.

“Did you have a nice visit?” I asked A.

Oh yes

It was the usual: mostly yes/no responses when prodded. R seems to be aware of questions. Sometimes he will answer, sometimes not. I wonder every time I visit what is going on in his head.

But there was one more response that A said he got to a question he posed to Robert, perhaps about whether he wanted to hear music.

Absolutely, he said.

And I maintain, that Robert is still in there.

Absolutely.

📌The series starts here:
Part 1: And The Band Played On … a mother’s life, a daughter’s journey

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